


think it went oh, oh, oh

by queervengers (nonsexualandsilly)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Bars and Pubs, Career Change, Coincidences, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Growing Up, M/M, Magic is Real, Mutual Fake Identities, One Night Stands, Rare Pairings, Some Humor, Violations of the international statute of secrecy, but only a little bit crack, i am one hundred percent serious to be clear, tags and character tags to be edited as i go because honestly?? who knows who will show up, that last a lot more than one night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsexualandsilly/pseuds/queervengers
Summary: “So,” Harry finally says, “what’s got you in a place like this, off your arse with a stranger?”Louis groans and drops his forehead to the table, immediately regretting that choice when he feels how sticky the wood is. “Could ask you the same.”“Could,” Harry agrees, mild, “but I asked you first.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coziloveyourface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coziloveyourface/gifts).



> for eva, the best wife anyone could ask for. happy birthday.

It’s not like Louis had a plan for tonight, really, but if he had, it wouldn’t have been getting pissed in some seedy bar in Stockwell, but here he is, parked in a dark corner with a mostly empty pint in one hand, his mobile in the other. He’s staring at Zayn’s tweet from this morning and considering - what? Even drunk, he knows better than to reply to it, especially given that he doesn’t know what he’d  _ say _ ; part of him wants to type out a “love ya best of luck !” and part of him is leaning toward giving in to the nastier parts of himself, saying something cruel that he’d never be able to take back, to  _ hurt _ Zayn, because if Louis can’t get him to stay then maybe he could at least make it harder to let go, but no. He’s trying to be a better person, or something like that. Zayn’s gone, and the band is on its last legs without him, and Louis’s drunk and his phone’s about to die, and he just really needs a smoke.

He grabs his coat and slips out the door, pulling out a menthol and his lighter as he goes. It’s not cold out, but he pulls his jacket close around him as he leans against the building and lights the cig, taking a long drag as he stares out at the mostly-empty street. He suspects it might rain soon, the air cool and heavy, and he’s glad to just be able to breathe for a bit. His head’s clearer than it was inside, the air and smoke lending him some clarity, but he’s not really sure he  _ wants _ clarity. It’s weird, this - the break in the tour, the chance to catch up on sleep, the awareness that his life is on the verge of falling apart but the inability to  _ do _ anything about it. 

He could text Zayn, though. Probably should, honestly - he’s pissed as  _ hell _ , but his mom’s always on about conflict resolution and working things out  _ collaboratively _ , and she’s probably right about something in there, given how she’s right about most things. And it’s not like Zayn’s going to text him first, not after Louis’s tweets at fucking  _ Naughty Boy _ , who’s an absolute joke.  _ But not the issue _ , Louis reminds himself, closing his eyes and tilting his head back just for a second. 

Determined, he reaches for his phone, only to find his pocket empty but for the pack of Marlboros, meaning he left it inside. He swears under his breath and tosses his cigarette on the ground, grinding it under his heel to put it out. That done, he heads back inside, heading straight back to his booth while his commitment to making amends is still fresh, except - 

Someone’s in his fucking booth.

Louis supposes it’s not like he left much indication that it was  _ his _ booth, since someone’s gone and cleared away his pint glass and the guy doesn’t seem to have noticed Louis’s phone, but it’s the principle of the thing. He’s also been trying to avoid really interacting with anyone; sure, this isn’t the type of bar where he feels he’s likely to be recognized, given that most of the clientele consists of middle aged men who don’t look like they’d care about a boy band, but you never know who’s got a daughter, or weird taste. And besides, the guy in his booth is younger, looks no older than Louis, so it just feels risky to call attention to himself. But he needs his mobile back, and he was planning on drinking more anyway, and he’s already hovering over the table like a fucking idiot, even if the guy hasn’t seen him. So he just - slides into the seat across and hopes for the best.

The guy looks up, eyebrows raised behind his glasses, but doesn’t seem like he recognizes Louis. “Can I help you?” he says when Louis doesn’t say anything.

“You’re in my booth,” Louis replies, shrugging. “I’d like it back.”

“It was empty when I got here.” The guy takes a sip of his drink, not making any move to leave, just looking at Louis steadily. His eyes are very green, Louis notes. Like, weirdly so.

Louis rolls his eyes. “My mobile’s right there, mate.” He points at the offending device, which is indeed on the table, closer to the new guy than to Louis. The guy slides it across the table indifferently, and Louis pockets it. “Thanks. Still like my booth back, though.”

“Plenty of room,” the guy says, then downs the rest of his drink. “Next round’s on me, if you insist on sticking around.”

Louis means to say no, means to tell the guy to fuck off and be done with it. He really does.

He has no explanation for why he doesn’t.

In his defense, he’s pretty drunk.

  
  


 

An hour later, Louis is significantly drunker, the table getting sticky with beer from the number of times he’s let it slosh over the edge while trying to tell the guy - whose name is Harry, because of  _ course _ it is, of fucking  _ course _ \- that one story about Liam and Niall trying to get a forty-pound wheel of cheese onto a plane. He’s changed the names, of course, to be on the safe side (and he kicks himself internally for introducing himself as  _ Paul _ , because now he’s locked himself into using Oasis’s names as the fakes for  _ everyone _ , and he’s too drunk to keep it straight), but Harry’s absolutely losing it, and Louis hasn’t texted Zayn  _ or _ his Harry, because his mobile ran out of battery before the table takeover, but he’s not really thinking about it either way. This Harry seems to have no idea who Louis is, which is great, except that it makes it harder for Louis to convince himself that it’s a bad idea to move closer, to rest his feet on Harry’s knees under the table, to take a sip of Harry’s bourbon when he’s killed off his own beer. It doesn’t help that Harry just  _ lets him _ do those things.

At some point, when Louis is swirling the melting ice left in Harry’s otherwise empty glass and Harry’s got his hands resting on Louis’s bare ankles, there’s a moment of silence. It feels delicate, somehow, like he should say something or get up and leave or just do  _ anything _ , but he forces himself to stay still, stay quiet.

“So,” Harry finally says, “what’s got you in a place like this, off your arse with a stranger?”

Louis groans and drops his forehead to the table, immediately regretting that choice when he feels how sticky the wood is. “Could ask you the same.”

“Could,” Harry agrees, mild, “but I asked you first.”

Louis shrugs. “Work shit, mostly. One of the guys on my, uh, team, he up and quit out of nowhere, and we’ve got some time off from the project we were working on with him, and it’s  _ shit _ , and it’s falling apart and I just needed some fucking space, yeah? Therefore,” he spreads his arms, gestures at the sticky table and the dark bar, “here I am. You?”

“Work shit too, I suppose,” Harry replies. “I’m, er.” He pauses, and Louis can tell it’s a lie before he even finishes the statement, but whatever, it’s not like Louis has been totally honest either. “I’m a policeman, and I’ve just been on some very intense cases lately, and getting a lot of attention around them, and I needed to go somewhere nobody knows me. Where nobody  _ wants _ anything from me.” He looks down, and his glasses slip down his nose a little, and Louis has the ridiculous urge to push them back up. He resists. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“No, I get it,” Louis says, even if he’s sure whatever Harry really does is different than being an international pop sensation. He knows all too well what it’s like for people to want things from you all the time.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just nods. His hands are still on Louis’s ankles, and Louis can’t help but be hyper-aware of their warmth. He doesn’t say anything either, just stares at the glass in his hands, the ice in it almost fully melted now, his hands damp from condensation. When he looks up, he meets Harry’s eyes, so fucking green behind his glasses. He holds eye contact for a moment, then examines the rest of Harry’s face, trying not to be weird about it but likely failing miserably. He takes in Harry’s dark, messy hair, the jagged scar on his forehead, his lips. He probably spends too much time staring at the lips. Not that that stops him. They’re good lips. 

_ Fuck _ , he thinks. He shouldn’t do this - hookups with men are too risky. Sure, it doesn’t seem like Harry knows who he is, but he can’t know for sure, can’t guarantee that Harry won’t put it together later, or that they won’t be seen, or any number of other risks he just can’t afford to take. 

“I should go,” he says after too long a pause. He gets his feet off Harry and onto the ground and gathers his things. Harry looks surprised, but nods. He follows as Louis heads up the bar and pays for both of them, not letting Harry even try to cover any of it. Sure, he’s not going to hook up with Harry, but he’s not a complete arsehole, and it’s not like he can’t afford it.

When they get outside, it’s raining a little, more mist than anything, and Louis shrugs on his jacket. “Nice meeting you, man,” he says to Harry, and means it.

“You too,” Harry says.

They both stand there, awkward, and Louis considers going in for a hug, or a handshake, but Harry turns away and starts to leave, so Louis does the same. He heads in the opposite direction, ready to find himself a cab home, but it’s only seconds later when he hears a shouted  _ Paul! _ and then footsteps coming towards him. He turns, and Harry’s there, and his hair’s a mess from the rain, and Louis  _ really _ doesn’t want to go home alone.

When Harry kisses him, Louis throws caution to the wind, just for a moment, and lets him. There’s no one around, he tells himself, tangling a hand in Harry’s hair while Harry leans into him, kissing him like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing. They’re just about the same height, bodies fitting together easily, and Louis  _ wants _ .

He doesn’t want to get caught snogging some bloke on a street corner, though, given that he’s genuinely put quite a lot of work into not getting outed anytime soon, so he pushes Harry away reluctantly. “Cab?” he asks, and Harry nods, eyes hooded and lips slick with saliva. It’s hard for Louis to keep his hands off him, but he resists until they get off the street. Louis gives the cabbie the address for his new flat, rather than the house - he’s already taking enough of a fucking risk without putting Harry that close to all of his band paraphernalia, but the flat’s pretty much just got a furnished bedroom and a well-stocked fridge so far, so it’ll do for now. Besides, it’s closer, and Louis doesn’t want to wait to get his hands on more of Harry. It’s hard enough limiting himself to a hand on Harry’s thigh, tracing little circles with his index finger, but he manages. Somehow.

Louis is practically  _ aching _ with want by the time they get to his building, and his doorman nearly calls him  _ Mr. Tomlinson _ before he catches Louis’s deer in the headlights look, and then he’s trying to tell Harry that his name is, in fact, Paul Tom, and then they’re kissing in the lift and it’s all forgotten. Louis tries not to think of that one lyric of Ed’s, but fails, and he finds himself laughing so hard against Harry’s mouth that they’re barely even kissing.

“What?” Harry asks, laughing a little too despite not being in on the joke.

“‘They say I’m up and coming like I’m fucking in an elevator,’” Louis quotes, and Harry  _ really _ laughs at that one, throwing his head back and exposing his long, dark neck. Louis wants to bite it, so he does, and he can feel the vibrations from Harry’s laughter against his mouth.

“Did you come up with that yourself?” Harry asks.

“Ed Sheeran,” Louis replies, but Harry just looks confused. “Do you live under a rock?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t get out much,” he says simply, then pulls Louis back in. Louis rolls with it, tugging Harry’s lower lip between his teeth and sucking on it gently. Harry’s hands slide under his jumper, warm and insistent, and Louis is glad when the lift dings and he can grab Harry by the hand and yank him down the hallway to his door.

Louis doesn’t even take the time to turn on the lights before crowding Harry against the door, kissing him hard and thorough until Harry’s a gasping mess. Louis pauses for a second to discard his jacket, tossing it in the general direction of the kitchen, followed by his jumper. He then leans over to hit the light switch while Harry throws his own jacket in the same direction. With the lights on, Louis pauses to get a good look at Harry, whose hair is even messier than before, t-shirt untucked and glasses askew. Louis just looks him up and down, and Harry smiles tentatively at him.

“I like your tattoos,” Harry says, reaching out a hand. Louis lets him run it along his chest piece and down his arm, and it’s too easy to tangle his fingers in Harry’s and pull them up to his mouth, to kiss his hand softly like this is something more than it is.

He likes intimacy and he’s more than a little drunk. It’s not his fault.

They stand there like that for a moment, in the entryway of Louis’s nearly-empty flat, Harry’s hand against Louis’s mouth. It’s almost painful in its simplicity and sweetness, and Louis can’t have that, so he pulls on Harry’s hand a little, tugs him closer until he can kiss him again, can get his hands under Harry’s t-shirt and grip his hips. Harry’s giving as good as he’s getting, arms around Louis’s shoulders. Louis trails his mouth down the side of Harry’s neck, then hits the collar of his t-shirt, so he tugs at the bottom of it until Harry takes the hint and pulls it off altogether, accidentally hitting Louis in the face with an elbow in the process.

“Fuck, Paul, I’m sorry,” Harry says, stifling a laugh against Louis’s neck. Louis curses himself for picking  _ Paul _ of all the fucking fake names in the world, but - 

But he knows better than to tell Harry the truth. He knows better than to make this any riskier than it already is.

Instead, he just slaps Harry’s arse, which gets another laugh out of Harry, and Louis uses a couple more taps to steer Harry down the hall towards the bedroom, Harry trying to bat his hands away all the while. Louis takes the opportunity to eye Harry’s back, well-muscled and dark, scars littering it. From what, Louis can’t imagine. But he has other things to worry about right now, like pushing Harry towards his bed.  

Louis turns on the bedside lamp, then throws himself face down on top of the covers, mostly to appreciate how fluffy his blankets are. He fucking loves blankets. But he’s also super into the bloke he knows is standing right behind him, so he just wiggles his bum in what he hopes is a sufficiently inviting manner.

Apparently, he fails, because Harry just laughs at him before sitting next to him on the bed. “So that’s it?” Harry asks. “You’re done for the night?”

Louis just reaches out a hand to push at Harry - he’s not  _ done _ , just  _ resting _ \- but it lands on Harry’s upper thigh, so it’s all too easy to reach a little further, get a hand on Harry’s dick through his jeans.”Not done,” he says against the blankets, words muffled, as he rubs his thumb along the seam. Harry cants his hips towards Louis’s hand obligingly, and Louis lifts his head, turns it so he can look up at Harry while he gropes him shamelessly. Harry’s pupils are blown, his mouth slightly open, and Louis doesn’t really want to move from his very comfortable position but he also doesn’t really want to  _ not _ be kissing that mouth, so he groans loudly and climbs onto Harry’s lap, popping open the button on Harry’s jeans as he does so.

It takes some adjusting of the angle to make it work, but soon he’s able to get Harry’s cock free and stroke it while Louis kisses him, grinding down on Harry’s thigh like a fucking teenager while he does so. It’s maybe not the most dignified or coordinated handjob he’s ever given, but he knows what he’s doing, given that most of his hookups with men have been rushed handjobs with his bandmates on the tour bus or backstage. Harry’s appropriately responsive, and Louis doesn’t know if he wants to get him off now, get him to come hard and fast and all over Louis’s hand, or if he wants to wait, draw this out, ride Harry or fuck him or at least suck him off. But he’s tired, and hard, and it’s easier, really, to just get his own dick out too. He tries stroking them both for a moment, but his hand is too small and it’s too fucking dry, so he leans back, fumbling for the bedside table to grab the lube that he thinks is in there.

Unfortunately, his coordination is shot to shit, so instead of the smooth grab he was aiming for, he falls off Harry and then off the bed altogether, and then he’s just laughing on the floor, helplessly giggling with his jeans undone and his cock out. Harry reaches over a hand, which Louis understands is an offer to help him up, but instead, he takes it and yanks Harry down to the floor with him. Harry knees him a little in the process, but then Harry’s on top of him, which is nice, and their dicks are touching, which is nicer, and Harry grinds down, slow and dirty, which gets Louis moaning against his mouth. He’s been kind of in a drought, is the thing, since things are weird between him and the guys and he’s just been too  _ tired _ to go out and pick up girls, and he’s a little embarrassed by how  _ close _ he is already, like he’s a fucking kid again, but Harry’s making a fair bit of noise too, and Louis doesn’t care. If he comes with his jeans half-on, he’s never going to see Harry again, so it’s not like it’s an issue.

He’s certainly not going to complain, though, when Harry starts working his way down Louis’s neck and chest, dropping kisses along the way, lower and lower until he’s at Louis’s hips, and then he’s tugging Louis’s jeans and pants down to his knees and going straight for his dick, which - yeah. Not complaining. Harry’s  _ good _ at this too, using one hand where his mouth can’t reach, doing something nice with his tongue that has sparks shooting up the base of Louis’s spine. Louis just murmurs encouragement, getting his hands on Harry’s hair, his cheeks, wherever he can reach while he tells Harry  _ yeah _ and  _ like that _ and  _ oh my god, more _ . Harry  _ mmm _ s softly, bobbing his head, and it doesn’t take much more than him getting a thumb behind Louis’s balls for Louis to find himself on the edge of orgasm. He warns Harry, who just makes a little noise and sucks harder, and Louis is  _ gone _ , whiting out so hard he feels like he’s temporarily ascended to a higher plane of existence or something. 

Harry gives Louis’s dick a few more strokes, kisses the tip of it, then makes his way back up Louis’s body, grinning when he looks down at Louis, who’s slack-jawed and panting. “Christ,” Louis says. “That was...fucking magical, honestly.” Harry laughs, which Louis resents - he’s a  _ little _ stupid post-orgasm, but  _ whatever _ . He doesn’t care enough to not pull Harry down into a loose, sloppy kiss though, tasting himself on Harry’s tongue. He can never figure out if that’s gross or hot, but he’s into it, so whatever.

He also figures it’s his job to return the favor, so he kicks his jeans off the rest of the way and pushes at Harry until he can straddle Harry’s hips, then frowns.

“Nope,” he says. “Get on the bed, love. I didn’t buy this enormous fucking mattress so that I could suck dick on the  _ floor _ .”

“Double standards, I see,” Harry replies, but he complies, stripping naked and then helping Louis up with him. It takes Louis a second to find the best angle, but he figures it out, arranging Harry so he’s sitting against the headboard. Louis settles between his legs, then pushes his fringe to the side and examines Harry’s dick. It’s nice enough, uncut, comparable in size to Louis’s. Maybe a little bigger, but whatever. Louis ducks down, licks the underside once and then grins at Harry, his mouth against the tip, and then he goes for it, breaking out every trick in his - granted, relatively limited - arsenal. It works, though, Harry groaning and saying  _ Paul _ again and again, which throws Louis off every time, but not enough to interfere with the task at hand. He can feel Harry’s balls tightening, can feel the hand against the side of his head trying hard not to grab at his hair, and he knows Harry’s close. Harry confirms it, and Louis keeps going, swallowing it all because he believes in full reciprocation, thank you very much.

He feels Harry relax under him, so he tilts his head to the side, resting it on Harry’s thigh while Harry cards his fingers through Louis’s hair. It’s nice, and Louis is honestly ready to fall asleep right here, like this, but Harry tugs him up and kicks down the blankets, and Louis should probably kick him out to save them both the mess of morning after bullshit, but he’s tired and Harry is warm, so he doesn’t. He just pulls the blankets around both of them, kisses the side of Harry’s mouth, and then drapes one leg over Harry’s. His eyes are closed when he feels Harry reach for the bedside table, and then the light is off and he’s asleep before he knows it.

  
  


 

The sun is too bright when Harry wakes up, streaming through the windows and right onto his face. His arse is exposed, and he’s got a headache, which is all in all one of his least favorite combinations to wake up to. He stretches a hand towards his bedside table, fumbling for his glasses and the hangover potion he’d left there before going out, except -

He’s not at home. Obviously.

Now that he’s woken up a little, Harry can remember the night before, and he’s not complaining, except, well. Headache, arse out, all that. He finds his glasses where they’ve fallen to the floor and gets them on, then takes in his surroundings.

Paul’s flat is  _ nice _ , or at least the bedroom is, with its high ceilings and huge windows. The same windows are the source of the absolutely  _ blinding _ sunlight, given that there are no curtains, but Paul doesn’t seem bothered; he’s still passed out on the other pillow, dead asleep.

Harry does his best not to disturb Paul as he climbs out of bed - he doesn’t  _ really _ have to get to work anytime soon, since he can just say he was working on the Bainbridge investigation and no one will question him. He did, however, promise Hermione lunch and that means he has to get home, get cleaned up, and get to the Ministry by a reasonable hour. It’s not like he’d say  _ no _ to morning sex, he thinks, looking back at where Paul has now sprawled out even more on the bed, feet tangled in the sheets, but if he wants to keep his day on any sort of track he’s got to go. 

He picks up his discarded clothes from the bedroom, pulling them back on as he does. He can’t find his socks, but he doesn’t care that much. Instead, he’s focused on getting his jacket from where it was discarded in the living room, confirming that his wand’s still in the pocket, and then he’s out the door, closing it softly behind him.

In the light of day, Harry can appreciate how nice the building really is, as airy and spacious as Paul’s flat even in the  _ hallways _ . The lift he gets into is all dark wood and mirrors, and Harry wonders absently what Paul does for a living. From their conversations the night before, he assumes it’s one of those Muggle jobs that he doesn’t fully understand but make lots of money, like a  _ project director _ or a  _ hedge fund manager _ or one of those. Harry’s own flat is in Muggle London, and it’s not like he shopped around for a particularly good deal, but his costs a modest amount and is nowhere near this nice.

He avoids eye contact with the well-dressed woman who gets on a few floors down, and the equally polished man who joins them further down, knowing that his scuffed trainers and ratty jacket make him stand out like a sore thumb. He’s itching to get out, to Apparate, to be anywhere but here, but he takes deep breaths and looks at the floor until the doors finally open and he can walk out as quickly as possible without looking suspicious. The doorman from the previous night gives him a nod, and he returns it, slipping out the door and finding an alleyway from which he can Apparate home.

He has to get back to his life, after all.

  
  


 

Louis wakes up alone. The sun is bright on his face -  _ Christ _ , he needs to get curtains here; he’ll have to make a note of that for later. He reaches for his mobile to do so, groaning when he realizes it’s not on his bedside table, which means it’s still dead, which means he’s been off the grid all night.

He yanks a sheet off the bed and wraps it around his shoulders, leaving himself otherwise naked to go make himself tea and charge his phone.

He pretends not to be disappointed when there’s no note from Harry on his fridge or his counter with a phone number or even a  _ thanks _ . It’s not like he was expecting a relationship to grow out of a one-off.

He knows better. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello here i am again with more of this wild adventure
> 
> also while most timelines make relative sense, i'm shifting the events of the hp series by ten years so that things line up better and i forgot to mention that before chapter one whoops

Harry looks at himself in the mirror, trying to figure out if he looks acceptable. His hair is, as always, an untameable disaster, but he’s wearing a nice grey sweater and relatively good trousers. Despite the precautions they always take - despite being in fucking _Norway_ \- he always ends up in the Daily Prophet when spotted out with Viktor, and he’s tired of strangers approaching him in the street to tell him that he looks _tired_ or he’s really _let himself go_ or that they _don’t believe the headlines, everyone has rough weeks_. (He’s had a rough lifetime, thank you very much, and just because he occasionally wears joggers when he does the shopping doesn’t mean he’s in the middle of a fucking breakdown.)

He wishes that Viktor preferred purely Muggle places to meet up for this exact reason, but unfortunately for Harry, Viktor’s not nearly as bothered by the press, accustomed to it after his years as the face of Bulgarian quidditch. And regardless, they don’t meet up that much, so Harry can deal with dressing up a little on the rare occasion their paths do cross.

He’s meant to meet with the head of the Norwegian Auror Department tomorrow morning, but he Portkeyed in a day early to catch up with Viktor, whose work with the International Quidditch Association has kept him in Scandinavia for the past several months. And he loves Viktor, he really does, it’s just that he hates putting this much thought into his appearance.

Sighing, he swaps his sweater for a dark green one, which he’s not sure is better, but it’s not worse. Sometimes, that’s the best he can do. He messes with his hair a bit further, then gives up and heads out. The restaurant where they’re meeting is only a short distance away, so Harry walks it, appreciating the weather. It’s been hot in London lately, but the Oslo weather is closer to what he prefers, cool with the promise of rain soon.

He’s ready to head straight inside to find Viktor in the private room they’d booked, but he’s waylaid outside by his friend, who looks like someone spat in his coffee.

“They gave up our dining room,” Viktor says, scowling. “ _Our_ dining room. To _Muggles._ ” His annoyance makes his accent stronger than usual.

The restaurant in question is an integrated one, with a wizard chef married to its Muggle manager, but they’ve been there before, and the couple in question are both huge Quidditch fans; they’ve never been anything but accommodating to Viktor.

“I thought you’d booked it in advance?” Harry looks in the window, and the main dining area doesn’t appear busy. “We can just grab a booth.”

“It is the _principle_ of the thing,” Viktor grumbles, but he follows Harry inside, where they’re seated toward the back. Their waiter has barely started listing the specials when the chef comes out and cuts him off.

“Mr. Krum, Mr. Potter.” She nods at each of them. “I wanted to express my deepest apologies for double booking our private dining area. Unfortunately, we were backed into a corner on this, and, as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s difficult to explain to Muggle celebrities why your business is so important to us. Of course, your meals today are on the house as a result.”

Viktor still looks annoyed, but his face relaxes a bit at the mention of a free meal. They’re here after the lunch rush, fortunately, so they still have relative privacy, and Harry’s willing to throw up a few security charms if he has to.

“We understand,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” she replies before spinning on her heel and heading back for the kitchen.

The waiter adjusts his blazer and resumes telling them the specials.

  


 

Louis has a headache.

The food is good here, and everyone appears to be having a good time, the dining room filled up with the band and a chunk of the tech people and assistants, but it’s fucking loud, and the techie who Niall is engaged in a food fight with - Katie or Kendra or something - keeps missing Niall and hitting Louis. He has a chip stuck in his hair and her apologies are rapidly growing less effective.

“I’m just gonna,” he says, jerking his thumb toward the door, speaking to no one in particular. He leaves the sentence unfinished as he pushes his chair back and heads for the side door, pulling his cigs out of his pocket as he does.

The door leads out into a little alleyway with the kitchen entrance and a few dumpsters. It’s not the best smelling place to take a smoke break, but he’s dealt with worse, and at least it’s private. He lights up, tilting his head back against the brick exterior of the building as he exhales the smoke. He loves touring, he does, loves fucking around with his friends on stage and hearing thousands of people scream his words back at him, but he’s seeing now how naive he was at eighteen to think he could just do this forever. They’ve gone too fast for too long, and without Zayn now the cracks in the band just keep growing more and more evident. Which is not to say that Louis isn’t excited for their next album, which is just starting to take form, but he just doesn’t know where they can go after that. Not without Zayn, not with Harry’s constant hinting that maybe they’re ready for a break, for other things.

Louis doesn’t want other things. He’s not sure he has a choice.

He’s startled out of his reverie by people coming around the corner, talking quietly. He looks up, and he does a bit of a double take when he recognizes one of them.

“Paul?” Harry says, sounding startled.

Louis stubs out his cigarette and adjusts his beanie. “Harry, hey.”

The man with Harry steps closer and looks down at Louis. “You know each other?” he asks in mildly accented English. “Harry, you know Louis Tomlinson?”

“We’ve met,” Louis says, hoping the guy doesn’t know Harry’s gay, doesn’t put two and two together. The guy reaches out a hand to shake. “Hi there.”

“Viktor Krum,” the man replies. His shake is extremely firm. Louis is worried for his fingers. “My sister, huge fan.”

Harry holds up a hand. “Can someone please explain what’s happening here?”

“Uh,” Louis starts.

“Eloquent,” Harry replies, raising an eyebrow. Louis is struck again by how handsome he is.

“It’s possible that I gave you a fake name when we met before.”

“Possible,” Harry repeats drily.

“Probable, even.” Louis reaches out a hand. “Louis Tomlinson, nice to actually meet you.”

Harry takes it. His handshake is a lot more reasonable than Viktor’s was, though he holds on for longer than necessary. “Harry Potter,” he says.

“What brings you to Oslo, Harry Potter?”

“Work stuff,” Harry says.

Louis makes a face at him. “Didn’t you tell me you’re a policeman?”

“Er, something like that, yeah. Just working a larger case. Collaboration with other forces, you know.”

Louis has been lied to many times, and he’s gotten pretty good at spotting it. He’s almost certain that now is one of those times, especially given that he remembers thinking Harry had been lying the first time he said he was a cop. And now with the international thing, and his weirdly buff associate...Louis is thinking MI6, maybe. The scars, the lying, the international travel….

“What about you?” Harry asks.

Viktor cuts in. “Have you ever heard of One Direction?”

Harry’s confusion looks genuine, which Louis finds soothing. “Should I have?”

“Famous boyband. He’s a member.” Viktor seems like he’s about to laugh. “ _You_ must be why we couldn’t get our dining room.”

Louis had heard that there was some difficulty with their room reservation, but he certainly hadn’t imagined it was for two people. His belief that Harry is MI6 deepens, because why would they need a _private room_. “That’s probably our fault, yeah. We have a show tonight.” He considers leaving it at that, but against his better judgment, he offers, “Could get you guys tickets if you want.”

Harry’s mouth twists into a frown and Louis immediately regrets asking. “I don’t really, er, do well with crowds. But thank you.”

Louis nods, and it’s silent for a moment, awkward more than anything, the three of them just standing in this alley by a dumpster. Louis lights another menthol, at a loss for what else to do. He doesn’t want to be rude and go back inside, and he likes Harry’s company, but it’s weird above all else, especially given his desire to not be outed to Viktor.

Harry finally breaks the silence. “Louis,” he says slowly.

“Yes?”

“Are those...my socks?”

Louis looks down, then feels his cheeks heat. He’s so used to wearing his bandmates’ clothes that he hadn’t thought twice about the lightning bolt printed socks he didn’t recognize while getting ready. “Quite possibly. They’re very nice. I’ve washed them, I swear.”

Harry laughs. “They were a gift from friends. I match.” He pushes back his hair to better show the scar on his forehead, which Louis supposes does resemble lightning a bit, the smaller lines fracturing away from the center one.

Viktor clears his throat, which makes Louis overly aware that he was just kind of...staring at Harry. “I’m going to...go,” he says. “You two talk. Exchange socks, or whatever.”

Harry laughs, but Louis is panicking a little bit. Viktor seems to read some of that on his face, and claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Louis Tomlinson. Who you share socks with is none of my business. See you soon, Harry.” He winks, then walks out of the alley, leaving Louis and Harry alone.

Harry leans against the wall next to Louis, not quite crowding his personal space but close to it. “Viktor’s kind of weird; sorry about that.” He grins as he says it, and Louis can’t help but smile back.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “Do you want your socks back?”

Harry presses a hand to his own chest in mock offense. “And leave you without? What kind of arsehole do you take me for?” He drops his hand, then touches Louis’s wrist lightly. “Some other time, maybe?”

Louis, realistically, knows that this coincidental meeting is a one-off, and he’ll probably never run into Harry again, but he can’t help but smile. “Some other time.”

“So, you’re in a band?”

“I’m in a band,” Louis confirms.

“You any good?”

Louis laughs. “I like to think we are.”

Harry looks like he’s about to reply when the door next to Louis bangs open. It’s the techie Niall had been having a food fight with earlier. “Louis, you - ” She freezes, looking at Harry. “Harry Potter, holy shit.”

Louis looks at Harry, confused, and sees his deer in the headlights expression. “That’s me,” Harry says.

“Holy shit,” she repeats. “Kennedy Corrigan. I was a third year, when, well.” She looks at Louis and doesn’t further clarify. Harry seems to know what she’s talking about, though, his startled expression morphing into something softer, something understanding. Louis has no fucking clue what she’s on about.

“What’s up, Kennedy?” Louis says when he realizes she’s not going to elaborate.

“Uh, Brent’s looking for you inside and he’s getting pissy.”

Louis swears. “Do you have a pen?” he asks, on a whim.

Kennedy pulls one out from her hair. Louis takes it and grabs Harry’s arm, scrawling his personal number there. “Text me later,” he says, shooting Harry a grin before heading inside to see what Brent wants.

  


 

“Holy shit,” Kennedy says again once Louis is inside.

Harry laughs awkwardly. “So, you, uh, work with the band?”

“You _know_ the band? I mean, last I checked, the -” she lowers her voice, “- Wizarding world wasn’t too keen on Muggle culture.”

“It’s not,” Harry says. “I mean, I don’t really know them, I’ve just run into Louis a few times. How’d you end up here?”

“I’m Muggleborn, and it just didn’t really feel like that world wanted me around, what with the war and all. After my NEWTs, I mean, I tried, but I ended up moving back in with my parents and going to university for sound engineering, and now I’m here.” Kennedy shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt that I can beef up the security a little without anyone getting suspicious,” she adds.

Her answer is fair enough, even as much as Harry hates to hear it. He knows that Wizarding careers are relatively limited, and being friends with Hermione for well over a decade now means he’s heard plenty about what Muggleborns go through even now that Voldemort’s long gone.

“Well, if you ever need anything from our side of things, owl me.”

She grins at him, then pulls the side door open again. “Will do, Harry. Thanks.”

As soon as she’s gone, Harry checks the area for bystanders, then Apparates back to his hotel room. Apparating back had been the whole reason they’d gone into the alleyway in the first place, but Harry can’t complain about seeing Louis instead - especially now that he knows what happened to his socks.

His afternoon is mostly empty, given that he hadn’t planned on parting ways with Viktor until later, so he decides to take a shower and a nap.

First, though, he makes sure to copy Louis’s number from his arm to a piece of hotel stationary, folding it carefully and tucking it into the pocket of his coat.

He’ll call later, he promises himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: drunk dialing, louis's ongoing assumption that harry is a secret agent, harry and harry meeting, adventures for all

**Author's Note:**

> @tomlnswifts on tumblr // @7breadlysins on twitter
> 
> more to come but i couldn't resist posting it before it's done, because i am...like this


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